North Star

”I can see the stars!”

Stars.
Enormous, compact bodies of plasma spanning beyond a thousand human lives. Celestial lanterns used by travellers throughout the ages to get between one point and another. One point is far away. Another is home. For me, home is north. To get north you must follow Polaris, the North Star. It was this star, the brightest of all the stars in the Ursa Minor, that the Vikings used to navigate homewards hundreds of years ago.
I’m thinking none of these things when I hear your exclamation. Instead, I’m thinking that of all the things you could have said to wake me up just as I was beginning to fall asleep, this was the most irritating choice possible. Of course you can see the stars. We’re not in the city, there are no lights to distract us here. The sky is dark and there are no clouds blocking them from our view. There’s no reason at all as to why you wouldn’t be able to see stars.
“Mmf.” I mumble, accidentally serving myself a mouthful of pillow. Chewing on air, I open my eyes and look up towards you. You’re in boyshorts and a tank top, halfway to wearing your PJs. There’s something about the way you’re lying on your stomach, with your arms rested against the arm of the sofa-bed, peering out the window. Especially your legs, which are made to look milky white by the moonlight, and the way they stretch out behind you and bend at the knee, your feet up in the air and the soles facing the ceiling. The scene reminds me of a pinup poster from the 40s or 50s, if you would only let your hair out.
Your face, however, seems in some ways to be the same as when we first met; your eyes sparkle and your mouth is only barely smiling as you look up at the sky with a childlike fascination. I was always jealous of that face.
As I watch you, this is not what I’m thinking. Instead, I’m silently hoping that you won’t go into one of your bouts of youthful curiosity and start asking me about how far away the stars are and how warm they are and if I can remember what this or that constellation looks like or is called.
“They’re twinkling!” You say, almost squealing in delight. You don’t ask why stars twinkle. I’m relieved, because I really don’t know the answer.

I am the daughter of the daughter of the daughter of a Viking, and even though my travels are more mental, and less geographical, I too need a North Star to look for when I’m lost.
You are that star. My ever present, ever brightly shining, always there to guide me back home when I’ve drifted too far.


I just wish you wouldn’t do it when I’m trying to sleep.